


At His Grace's Service

by TheStarlingsRedstart



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Blow Job, Deepthroating, Edwardian Period, Internal Monologue, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Period-Typical Classism, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Rough Sex, Sort Of, Undressing, Very slight dubcon, better safe than sorry, handjob, historically accurate clothing, musings on period-typical classism, special thanks to my token posh friend who gave me five paragraphs of clothing info, to the best of my ability and knowledge, what else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 18:36:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15225420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStarlingsRedstart/pseuds/TheStarlingsRedstart
Summary: The Crawleys are spending the season in London. Among their staff is a young valet named Thomas, as pretty as he is ambitious, and with a rather... flexible moral codeOn the other side there is the Duke of Crowborough, a dazzlingly handsome, charismatic nobleman who is only too aware of his charms, with a penchant for adventure that is only exceeded by his distaste for taking on any kind of serious responsibilityHis Grace accepts the Earl's invitation to dinner, it's a long evening, he is invited to stay the night, Thomas is - of course - assigned as his valet.You all know where this leads.





	At His Grace's Service

**Author's Note:**

> This grew out of my having to many very specific headcanons about the relatonship between Thomas and the Duke of Crowborough. It's my first fic and the first thing I've actually finished in YEARS, I hope it's not abysmal?

Thomas' eyes drift back to the clock, as they have done countless times already this night. The seconds tick away, trickling down from the clock, pooling into minutes that eventually merge into hours.

He is struck once again by just how little consideration high society gives to those who ensure that their lives run as smoothly and effortlessly as they do. When he'd first arrived at Downton, he had marvelled at the precise efficiency with which everything fitted together, each member of staff exactly aware of their duties and position, a task for every tool and a tool for every task. It had reminded him of the clocks that his father built, cogwheels and springs forming a carefully composed order, unified by a single common purpose.

It strikes half past two, a single note piercing Thomas' ears and thoughts alike, and it is with equal amounts of dread and resignation that he thinks about the fact that he'll have to get up again in less than four hours.

Finally, about ten minutes later, William rushes in to tell him that His Grace is about to make his way upstairs. Thomas gets up from his seats, only now realising how stiff his joints have gotten, and quickly makes his way to the Duke's rooms.

 

When His Grace enters, Thomas is positioned between door and dressing table, the carefully cultivated expression of obsequious opacity that all servants seem to have mastered on his face.

The Duke's posture is immaculate as always, but the slowness of his movements, carefully avoiding clumsiness, betrays how much to drink he must have had. Thomas approaches him with measured steps. "Does His Grace wish me to assist Him with undressing?" He doesn't look at the Duke's face.

"Of course... Thomas." The Duke lifts his arms, allowing the valet to take off his tailcoat, the expensive black wool smooth under Thomas' fingertips. He pretends not to have noticed the Duke's brief hesitation before his name, an unambiguous indicator that he is merely another instalment in an endless, featureless series of ever-changing, ever-same valets helping him divest himself at the end of another day filled with idleness and amusement.

Instead, Thomas focuses on the body that he is about to reveal. He takes in the shoulders, broad but not brutish, the well-toned arms in white shirtsleeves, the slim, long-fingered hands, the narrow waist so handsomely accentuated by the close-fitting waistcoat.

Buttons, buckles, ties, cufflinks, layer by layer Thomas strips the Duke of his clothes, carefully lays them aside, until only his shirt remains. He steps in front of him, hyperaware of how closely they are standing together.

Moving to undo the buttons, he raises his hands.

Raises his gaze.

Stills.

 

The Duke looks back at him, steadily, his expression calm, and Thomas is just about to return to his task, when the Duke, motionless so far except for undressing, lifts a hand, cups Thomas' face, and runs a thumb along his cheekbone. Thomas' breath hitches, and for a moment he feels entirely unable to move, but then he takes the Duke's other hand, guides it to his lips, and places a lingering kiss on it, all without looking away.

He feels His Grace's fingers moving in his hair, but then both hands are gone and a dry "I believe you are not yet finished?," the pronunciation as crisp as the starched fabric of the shirt, breaks the silence.

Thomas hurriedly begins to unbutton the shirt, thanking Heavens that his fingers are steady, and finally is about to pull it off the Duke's shoulders, when –

Their mouths crash together, hungry, without any hint of refinement or technique, and the stubble on the Duke's chin is rough on Thomas' face – _I would have done a better job of shaving him_ , he can't help but think – but none of that matters when he feels the soft, surprisingly full lips, the devilishly nimble tongue, the fingers tightening in his hair and ruining the neat style he arranges so carefully every morning.

It is a sloppy kiss, wet and open-mouthed, tasting of liquor and cigarettes, with more teeth that he cares for, strictly speaking.

It is exactly what he wants.

 

When they break apart, breathless, still tightly holding on to each other, it could be seconds or hours later, Thomas doesn't know. The Duke looks down at him, lips curled into an amused, seemingly detached smile, but his pupils are blown wide and his breath heavy, not to mention the erection that the open shirt does nothing to hide.

Thomas licks his lips, looks down at the hard, flushed member, looks back up at His Grace.

"Is that what you want." It is more of a statement than a question, the Duke's voice low and rough with thinly-concealed desire. Thomas nods. "Yes, Your Grace." His throat feels tight all of a sudden, he has to force the words to come out at an actually audible volume.

The Duke lets out a quiet chuckle. "Then I suggest you get to work." His voice is filled with the easy firmness of those who have been giving orders all their life. Thomas drops to his knees.

 

He begins with a long lick along the underside, swirls his tongue round the tip before covering the entire length with wet, open-mouthed kisses.

The Duke buries his fingers in Thomas' hair, runs them through it, messes up what little styling had been left. Thomas kisses the tip one more time, then takes almost the whole length into his mouth.

He begins to move, lips stretched around the shaft, his tongue pressed to the underside. The Duke's fingers tighten, and Thomas begins to move quicker, then eventually pulls back to catch his breath.

The Duke looks down at him. "Pretty as you look with that lovely mouth of yours put to good use, who told you to stop?" His voice seems cool, dispassionate.

Before Thomas can even begin to think of an answer, the Duke suddenly grabs hold of his hair, slams forward and begins to fuck his mouth, and Thomas can only focus on keeping his throat loose and his breathing regular, even as he feels hot tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

Not that he is complaining, really – if anything, the hardness in his own, already uncomfortably tight trousers only seems to grow. Yes, he does enjoy being used like this, relishes in it, even.

It does not take much longer until the Duke's grip on his hair hardens one last time, he emits a low, drawn-out moan, and comes down Thomas' throat. It's salty and bitter and ever so slightly humiliating, and it could not be more perfect if Thomas had arranged every motion of it himself.

The Duke uses two fingers to lift Thomas' chin, and with surprising gentleness wipes a bit of moisture from the corner of his mouth. He looks rather somewhat dishevelled himself, hair damp and chest still heaving slightly. "Get up," he commands, but the edge in his voice has softened.

Once Thomas is back on his feet, the Duke pulls him into a lazy, unhurried kiss, almost playful in the way he nips at Thomas' lower lip and flicks his tongue in and out.

Then he takes a step back, turns Thomas around so he's facing the mirror above the fireplace, and His Grace up close behind him. "Look at yourself," the Duke whispers, the feeling of his hot breath on Thomas' neck sending shivers all over the latter’s body.

And he does look. From his shirt collar downwards, he is every inch the respectable valet in his starched bib, striped waistcoat, and neatly brushed coat. His face, on the other hand, tells a rather different story: Flushed cheeks, eyes still shimmering with tears, lips swollen and pink, and his hair is a shaggy mess falling into his face.

"Look," the Duke whispers again, coiling his arms around Thomas' body, his lips now even closer to Thomas' neck. This time he actually trembles, and the Duke lets out an amused hum and then Thomas' breath hitches and his head falls back because His Grace is palming him through his trousers and nuzzling his neck at the same time and it's almost too much, his entire skin is prickling, oh god it's late, and the Duke is pressing up against him from behind while almost naked, what will the maids say about the telltale stains on his clothes, but it feels so good, his hips begin to move almost involuntarily, jerky, uncontrolled, raw motions, and god, what is His Grace doing with his _hands_ , no one has any right to be that skilled, he feels teeth on his neck now, hopefully the collar will hide any marks, and then his balls tighten and he's coming, coming into his trousers like a schoolboy, and the Duke's holding him, kissing his neck, still whispering about how beautiful he is, and didn't that feel good?, he should have seen himself, eyes wide open – he has no memory of seeing anything during his orgasm.

Thomas regains his breath, and then his posture, and turns around. "It is late, Your Grace." The Duke half-smiles, boyishly. "That it is." He lifts his hand, one last time, to cup Thomas' cheek, and gently, no, tenderly, traces his cheekbone. "Goodnight, Thomas.” This time, there is no pause before his name. “Rest assured that this won't be the last time I require your services."

**Author's Note:**

> Here's to the friends who supported the writing process, be it through providing overly specific information, through putting up with the cool but unrelated stuff I found while doing research, or simply through nagging me to write on. Thank you.


End file.
